


Into The Fire

by Grundy



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: B2MeM 2018, Fëanorian Week 2018, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2019-04-04 21:18:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14028954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grundy/pseuds/Grundy
Summary: Quintet of drabbles in the key of Maedhros inspired by theMarch 4 prompt of B2MEM2018.





	Into The Fire

**I. Mano sinstra**

When Maedhros was finally convinced his rescue had not been a vision meant to torment him, he was greatly disheartened by the loss of his hand - his writing hand, his sword hand. He was not so despondent as to imagine himself of _no_ use without it, but its absence certainly lessened his worth.

Learning to use the remaining hand with the same dexterity was a trial, but it was not a torment – he knew the difference well.

The first time he fought – and slew – orcs with his left hand, he nearly cried for the joy of that small triumph.

**II. Lacrimoso**

Three shrouds.

Three pyres.

Three brothers fallen in one bloodsoaked day.

And for what? The Silmarils were still not in his hand or his brothers’ hands.

Their major accomplishment this day has been to put any hope of alliance or forgiveness beyond their reach for good. There are _children_ among the dead in the caverns – and children among the missing, for not only had he failed to find Dior’s sons in the forest, the princess of Doriath was not to be found either.

Three brothers. Three children.

What a fine leader he has become.

His father would be so proud.

 

**III. Piano**

“No.”

His voice was soft, but it carried nonetheless.

“Unless we hear word that Luthien’s granddaughter has the Silmaril, I will not further stain her life.”

He will not risk his people when there is not so much as a whisper of a Silmaril in Sirion. Two stones stud the Iron Crown, but only three sons of Fëanor yet draw breath.

He cannot afford to waste any of them on suspicions or wild hopes.

“We will not trouble Sirion with our presence. Look North if you would gather information, where we _know_ both our Enemy and our jewels to be.”

 

**IV. Cadence**

He’s not sure how it had come to this.

Not _again_.

This time is worse, for there was no reason for this bloodshed. He had given every order he could think of to prevent it. He had not expected the people of Sirion to be so determined to attack.

He should have. Too many were Iathrim, who expected no better from Maedhros Kinslayer. Red Handed. Bloodletter. The Sindar have many names for him, and he doubts he has heard them all yet.

They’d never believe the truth. He would rather have surrendered to Namo than seen so many others die.

 

**V. Silenzio**

The relief was profound, even as he fell.

This death had seemed so appropriate for a son of the spirit of fire. He no longer cared if this last glimpse of light and kiss of heat was followed by the Darkness Everlasting.

He felt no pain, surprising though it was. He had always imagined dying would hurt. Perhaps if he had died in Alqualondë, it would have.

But there was no pain in the end, only an absence of it that almost made him weep after so many years of knowing it as a constant companion.

And then, blessed silence.


End file.
